Escrita por: MJthequeen
7 ingredients the witch mixed in her sand pot.
First, her long, pale nails, like the claws of a cat.
Second, a black hair stolen from the back of her own neck.
Third, the lies of the new continent.
Fourth, the sweet scent of the jasmins.
Fifth, a pair of Poor-Me-One eyes. Poor her.
Sixth, a pot of liquid secrets, the kind you need to melt from someone.
Seventh. My name.
On the tenth moon of December, she grew the eggs under her own thighs. From the eggs, owls were born. Of the owls, claws. In the grip, paper and ink. Ink, letters. For you.
On the twentieth moon of December, she lit the fire. From the fire, cauldron. From the cauldron, sulfur. Sulfur, potion. The potion; poison. For you.
On the thirtieth moon of December, she wore gold. In her clothes, she invaded the sea. On the island, she pretended not to see me. Of my eyes, pain. Of my pain; You.
On the first dawn of January, she gilded her hair. Blonde, she gilded her skin. Golden skin, Venus. Me, your Aphrodite. She, your Venus. You, Mars me.
By the second dawn of January, she colored her nails. Blues, she held the bottle. She dropped the cork at the edge of a river. From the river, she bathed you. She has destroyed your perfume; destroyed me.
On the third dawn of January, she kissed you. From the kiss, hugs. Of the hugs, the belly. From the belly, screams. Moans; agony me.
7 alternatives have left me. 7 seasons await me. This isn't enough time to get you back. This isn't enough time to prove you - and yet I try. Even so, I promise you 1000 poems.
And I doubt I can write one hundred.